


Photographs

by nuance



Series: Tumblr Prompts [1]
Category: The Smiths
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-08-30
Updated: 2015-08-30
Packaged: 2018-04-18 02:58:36
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,017
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4689773
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/nuance/pseuds/nuance
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Prompt: AU where moz takes dirty pix of johnny</p>
            </blockquote>





	Photographs

**Author's Note:**

> i'm sorry i'm sorry i'm sorry i'm sorry i'm sorry i'm sorry i'm sorry 
> 
> Original post w/ notes on Tumblr: http://marriissey.tumblr.com/post/127955314400/
> 
> Disclaimer: This is a work of fiction. :-))))) Don’t sue me :-))))). Also, I am by no means a writer of any sort. My English teachers can vouch for that. I only started writing for this blog because I felt that there was a major insufficiency in Marrissey fics. I’m literally the most unsexy person please forgive me because this was a struggle
> 
> Note: Jo Slee is the woman who helped with Smiths (and some Morrissey) album art etc. etc. I set this early on in their career. It’s all a bit foggy. My sincerest of apologies.

Jo opened the door to an overwhelmingly underwhelming sight: shoes discarded in the entryway, a dirty kettle on the stovetop, a settee laden with heavy winter coats, complete with a copy of “A Taste of Honey” peaking out from beneath them. She entered with a slight thrill, relishing in the feeling of being an interloper in Morrissey’s impregnable refuge. It wasn’t easy to picture the man in such an intimate setting, as their interactions usually consisted of a brief meeting in her home, with small chats about colors and typefaces being their only mode of passing the time until Morrissey took his shy exit. She knew the meetings were incredibly personal for him, what with his sharing such unique images—ones that held within them certain triggers and emotions, though she never dared to ask what said emotions were (not that there was much need to ask. One could make educated guesses as to why the young man favored images of rugged Hollywood heartthrobs and scantily clad male figures).

The two usually met in Jo’s flat, but between working through the finishing touches on The Smiths’ newest single and the odd interview here and there, Morrissey had requested that she come to his home to get his latest collection of photographs and quick notes that would soon be the provocative face of an equally provocative song. 

She was given little direction over the phone, but Morrissey’s tone had made his apprehension obvious as he (somewhat gruffly) asked her “not to tamper with any personal effects”. Fair enough.

Jo wandered into the kitchen, scanning for any signs of the usual packet of photographs and notes. When her search proved fruitless, she moved gingerly into the living room, spying a brown envelope camouflaged on a littered coffee table—no labels, no markings, save an illegible note running along the top that was clearly Morrissey’s signature scrawl. Unable to decode the jumble, she sat down on the sofa and coaxed the glossy images out of the envelope. 

The first in the stack (which struck Jo as odd, as there were usually only one or two photographs the singer had firmly decided upon) was of a young man, propped up against a wooden headboard, shirtless and shameless in his boyish attempt at seduction. His chin was cocked just enough to let his inky bangs cover his eyes and his legs opened wide across the bedspread, the top button of his trousers undone to tauntingly reveal the faintest trail of dark hair. The familiarity of the boy’s face struck Jo, as she flipped quickly past the first picture to the second, affirming that this young man was, in fact, the guitarist Morrissey so often hurried off to after their meetings. She had seen him once or twice before, only in fleeting moments in the studio or in grainy music magazine photos. It also struck Jo that this envelope was definitely  _not_  the one Morrissey had wanted her to discover.

The second picture offered none of the teasing innocence of the first. Johnny had his trousers discarded, revealing skeletal legs and a too-tight pair of briefs. The tips of his fingers toyed playfully with the elastic hem, pulling it out ever so slightly as if to let it snap back seconds later. The stretched fabric only helped to highlight the outline of his growing arousal. On the white covers beneath the boy was the ghost of the photo’s culprit—a long shadow of a figure she could only assume to be Morrissey. Burning blush had pinched its way across Johnny’s face. He tugged his lower lip between his teeth and his dark eyes gazed out from behind his fringe, heavy and half-lidded. 

Jo’s face reddened madly as she peaked at the third, not willing to look away  from the….  _intimate display_  being uncovered before her eyes. Sending up a paltry prayer to any and every deity that Morrissey wouldn’t come bounding through the door, she flipped on.

Now he was on his back completely, stomach exposed, hand unabashedly shoved down his pants and mouth open in mid-moan. From the obscene “o” his lips made she could practically hear the tortured, throaty sound that undoubtedly sent a throbbing shock straight to the older man’s own need. 

Then came the introduction of the timid photographer into the frame in the form of two fingers shoved (rather deeply, Jo noted with a blush) between the parted, pleading lips of the younger boy. Johnny’s eyes were closed tight in loving concentration. His cheeks were nearing the same shade of pink as his tongue, which licked hungrily along the side of Morrissey’s index finger. A pair of jean-clad knees and a waist also peaked into the frame, straddling Johnny’s hips and locked mercilessly against the younger man’s cock.

The small snapshots suddenly shot ahead in time, filled with heartbeats racing, bodies sliding together, timid moans, sharp gasps, and drawn out sighs. All of this culminated into the fifth and final image, one that made Jo blush more than all the rest. The singer’s waiflike muse was now lying on his side, eyes closed and content. He was facing the camera, which had focused in dangerously close to his face. His lips were swollen and raw, framed perfectly by his alabaster skin (was he glowing or was it merely the effect of a shoddy camera?). Silken black hair clung to his forehead and mingled with the soft purple bite marks that peppered his neck. The scene was messy and undone and achingly post-coital, but the intricacies of his face, hidden beneath red marks and beads of sweat, were uncorrupted—pure in the bliss of a fledgling “like” on the cusp of becoming a far weightier four-letter word. 

Footsteps on the front walkway drummed Jo back to consciousness. She slid the photographs back into the envelope and jumped to her feet. Morrissey opened the door to meet Jo standing in the kitchen, unassuming. 

“My apologies for the wait-” Morrissey rushed in, with blush high and breath heavy. “I was out with Johnny.”

Jo nodded her forgiveness with an sly smile.


End file.
